


Fire of Unknown Origin

by xsnarksthespot



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Kiss, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:52:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2664320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsnarksthespot/pseuds/xsnarksthespot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a fire in Athos' apartment building in the middle of the night.  One of his neighbor's escapes in only his underwear.  His unfairly hot neighbor with zero shame, that is.  </p><p>
  <i>It’s that flash of teeth that reminds Athos why he fled, with his post clutched to his chest, after as little interaction as humanly possible.  Porthos’ face is as striking as the rest of him. Everything about him is bold and generous.  Worse, he is <i>guileless</i>. His open, honest eyes crinkle as he smiles, and a dimple peeks out at Athos.  It’s distracting enough that Athos doesn’t realise Porthos is roaming an appreciative leer down the length of his soaked body until it’s too late to stop the heat from flooding into his cheeks.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire of Unknown Origin

**Author's Note:**

> This would not leave me alone soooo, muse purge so I can get back to what I'm actually supposed to be writing.

Athos is face first in his sofa and sleeping off God knows how much wine when the building fire alarm goes off. It’s jarring, there’s no doubt about that. But it’s only two in the morning so he’s still slightly drunk and he’s warm and Christ, can’t he just sleep a little longer? Why is the world so bloody _noisy_? 

Quickly enough, the blaring noise ricochets past his semi-conscious mental complaining and he finally blinks one eye open. It takes another few seconds to shake the fog from his brain. In that time, the alarm seems to get louder and the sounds of people stomping down the hall reaches him. 

When a few anxious shouts follow, Athos is definitely awake. He is _awake_. Honest. He is...he is rolling off the sofa to his knees and getting completely tangled up in his afghan. Nice.

Muttering angrily, he crawls away from the sofa and coffee table until he has enough room to wiggle his way out of the blanket with a few belligerent kicks. When he finally achieves his freedom, Athos pushes to his feet and wobbles to the mismatched dinette set next to the kitchen. His keys are - _thankfully_ \- on the table where he’d hoped he’d left them. His wallet is not. 

He thinks about leaving it, but if this is a serious fire, he has nowhere to go and no one to turn to. He needs access to his money, at the very least. It takes a minute of increasingly irritated searching before he finds it half-shoved under the fridge. How the fuck it got there is a mystery for sober-Athos to mull over.

Unfortunately, the search has eaten up what time he would have used to look presentable and now Athos can actually smell smoke. He lurches out the door of his flat, barefoot and shoving his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans. 

The second he clears his doorway, someone rams into him and barrels past without an apology.

Under better circumstances, Athos would have said something witty and dry about dying with dignity, but in this case, all he manages is a cranky noise that sounds like something a sick cat would cough up.

Not that it matters. His rude neighbour is halfway to the stairs already.

Athos straightens his shoulders, which is apparently all the cue the sprinklers need to make everything infinitely more irritating.

He blinks under the steady stream of water and squints a glare up at the ceiling. The sprinkler system in the building is outdated and hopeless, only covering a yard in every other hallway and not any of the apartments, but it fits that the space he is standing in happens to be one of places it does reach.

By the time he gets to the stairs, his plain white t-shirt is soaked through and his jeans are making squelching noises. He nearly slips on the way down, but he makes it to the ground floor without any other incidents. Pushing through the door at the base of the stairs, he finds himself stumbling into a crowd of people all moving towards the street. 

“Oh, God, that’s really going,” someone gasps nearby.

Athos follows the woman’s gaze up to the fire, which is billowing smoke out of two windows on the fifth floor. As he watches, flames lick along the windowsills, catch in the curtains, and flare brighter.

He wonders if anyone is in there. For a split second, he nearly heads back. There are two families on the fifth floor. He doesn’t remember their names or which kids belong to which parents, but he does _know_ there are enough of them that wrangling them all and escaping would not have been easy.

But, just as he makes a move back towards the door he came out of, sirens sound from a few blocks away. The professionals are close and people are still flooding out of the exit in small groups, so he moves to the other side of the street instead.

A small commotion at his building’s door catches his eye as he pushes a wet flop of hair out of his eyes.

“Don’t even worry about it, I’m just glad I could help,” a deep voice says from within a crowd. The people blocking Athos’ view start to part, talking and pointing up at the building, until eventually he sees the owner of that voice handing a toddler over to a man with three young girls clinging to his sides. The father looks harried and grateful, and his eyes glisten as he takes the toddler in his arms. He rambles his thanks a few more times before the Good Samaritan clamps a hand on his shoulder and directs him away from the building.

It’s only when the man with the rumbling voice starts blindly stepping backwards towards Athos, staring up at the building, that Athos really takes him in. 

He’s seen him before, even talked to him once while he collecting his post. Though talked is probably an exaggeration, since he doesn’t remember anything but a stilted introduction, forced on him by proximity and the engaging smile of the man in question.

Porthos. That was his name. 

_Porthos_ is in nothing but his underwear, but somehow that’s not the most noteworthy thing about him. Or maybe it is, since Athos is unconsciously soaking up everything his lack of clothing reveals. The way water trickles down the broad plains of his back and weeps from his dark curls. The blatant muscles in his arms and thighs, flexing with every move he makes. The number of intriguing scars Athos can spot as Porthos gets closer. He is, quite simply, striking. 

Striking probably doesn’t cover it, but it’s been years since the sight of anyone has evoked such a visceral reaction in Athos’ gut that it mentally stuns him for a moment.

And that’s _before_ the man fully turns around.

Black boxer briefs cling to his hips and thighs and - Athos forces his eyes up before his gaze can settle on where else they cling. He’s already openly staring. Crudely taking advantage of the situation isn’t Athos’ style. 

Even if his eyes burn with the effort.

Porthos seems completely unconcerned with the fact that he is so exposed. Or that he’s wet in the chilly air of an early November morning. In fact, a smile swings one corner of his mouth upwards as he stops.

Right in front of Athos.

Fuck. He’s smiling _at_ Athos.

Athos blinks, but his brain stalls and he just keeps staring like the idiot that he has apparently become since wrestling with his blanket on the floor of his living room. 

He’ll blame the wine tomorrow and not the fact that his skin is flushed and his nerves are buzzing.

“Got hit by the sprinklers, too, eh?” Porthos smirks, brushing a hand down over his chest to flick a few droplets of water towards the ground.

“I...yes,” Athos stammers quietly, finally, _finally_ jerking his gaze away to glance at the crowds that are parting to make room for two fire trucks.

“Fuckin’ useless, aren’t they?” Porthos steps up on the sidewalk to stand next to Athos, their shoulders nearly brushing. “The sprinklers, I mean. Only the one two doors down from me even works and course it switches on while I’m standin’ under the bloody thing.”

“Yes,” Athos says again, and then winces at how robotic he must sound. He tries again after shifting awkwardly on his heels. “Almost took the stairs on my arse.”

Porthos barks out a laugh and lifts his hands to his hair, squeezing his hands through to push out as much water as he can. “Now there’s a headline. _Man slips in puddle, breaks his neck while building burns_ ”.

Athos can’t help the smirk that twitches at his mouth, but he supposes it’s a step up from drooling. He sneaks another glance at Porthos, still, and gets caught staring at a round, puckered scar right above Porthos’ clavicle. Athos has, unfortunately, seen a gunshot wound before. He has one of his own, in the curve of his left shoulder blade.

Porthos cocks an eyebrow at him, so naturally, Athos deflects with all the skill he possesses.

“My luck, I’d break my legs instead, and simply have to wait at the bottom of the stairs until death or deliverance found me.”

“Well," Porthos grins. "You’re a cheery fucker, aren’t ya?”

It’s that flash of teeth that reminds Athos why he fled, with his post clutched to his chest, after as little interaction as humanly possible. Porthos’ face is as striking as the rest of him. Everything about him is bold and generous. Worse, he is _guileless_. His open, honest eyes crinkle as he smiles, and a dimple peeks out at Athos. It’s distracting enough that Athos doesn’t realise Porthos is roaming an appreciative leer down the length of his soaked body until it’s too late to stop the heat from flooding into his cheeks.

“Huh,” Porthos murmurs, those eyes of his gone sharp with interest. “Was about to say wet’s a good look on you, but the blush is even better.”

Athos huffs a flustered breath and looks away. He hopes the distraction of activity in front of their building will ease the rising panic in his chest, but Porthos’ bare arm grazes against his own and he immediately feels as nearly naked as the man standing next to him. Tensing, he balls his hands into fists at his sides.

“Hey… _hey_ ,” Porthos grunts, putting space between them and trying to catch Athos’ gaze with his own. “I’m sorry, yeah? Don’t wall up on me now. We might be here awhile.” He seems genuinely apologetic, like he’s concerned he’s crossed a line and Athos is disturbed by a man taking interest in him.

And he is. But not for the reasons Porthos is probably thinking.

Athos would be disturbed by _anyone’s_ interest, but it’s worse when the person is gorgeous and likeable and, frankly, completely out of his league. He’s a broken shell of a man going through the motions of living and Porthos practically glows with vitality.

“You want me to wander off?” 

The sliver of hurt in Porthos’ voice slips through Athos’ defenses and some of the tension leaks out of his shoulders. 

_Stop this. He deserves better_ , Athos thinks. 

He shakes his head and makes an effort to meet Porthos’ shuttered gaze with a regretful one of his own. “No. I am--it’s not you. I mean it is, but it isn’t. I…” Athos breathes a bitter laugh and shrugs a hand through his bedraggled hair. “It’s been a long time since anyone has looked at me like that.”

A heartbeat passes, surprised disbelief etching into Porthos’ lifted eyebrows.

“Even longer since I enjoyed it,” Athos adds.

The words are barely loud enough to be heard over the racket around them, but Athos sees the faint echo of epiphany flash across Porthos’ face. He watches, possibly _too_ avidly, as Porthos runs his tongue across his bottom lip thoughtfully. 

“Are you...saying you enjoyed it now?” he asks, clearly unsure if he’s just digging another hole for himself, but apparently unwilling to let it go without clarification.

Athos smirks, blinking slowly as he takes a deep breath. “You are relentless, aren’t you?”

Chuckling, Porthos scoots a little closer again. “I get that a lot. Was that a yes?”

He should flee. Athos knows this with a certainty that pains him. But the warmth in Porthos’ eyes seeps into the cracks in his damaged heart like morphine, and all he wants is more. More of that heady stare. More of that drugging smile. That one, the one curling the edge of Porthos’ mouth now as his eyes drop to Athos’ lips.

“You’re wasting your time,” Athos whispers. Because it _needs_ to be said.

“Because you’re not interested?”

“Because you could do so much better.”

Porthos frowns, tilting his head. “Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”

“I’m a _mess_ ,” Athos announces dryly. That only seems to amuse Porthos, though. He smiles a little more crookedly and reaches up to sweep a tentative thumb through the droplets still clinging to Athos’ throat. 

Athos shivers, and Porthos’ reply doesn’t help matters. 

“Maybe,” he growls warmly. “But if so, you’re a hot mess.”

A brutally clear image paints itself across Athos’ mind’s eye. Athos in Porthos’ lap, the man’s wide hands clutching his hips and then sliding up over his back to curl over his shoulders. He’s shirtless, but still in his wet jeans, and Porthos’ hair is damp at the edges, where Athos’ fingers twist. He’s gasping for breath, lowering his mouth for a desperate kiss, and Porthos is grinding his hips upwards to meet him, when Porthos, the _real_ Porthos, seems to develop psychic abilities.

To say his grin is _knowing_ would be an understatement. 

“I changed my mind. This look is better than wet and blush combined.”

Athos rolls his eyes and feels an embarrassed laugh flutter out past his helplessly smirking mouth. “Relentless,” he says with a pointed lift of his eyebrows.

“Startin’ to get the impression that’s not a complaint.” 

A few shouts from the emergency crew raise up, breaking the stare they’re sharing. It’s a relief and somehow painful at the same time. Athos surveys the building to see the fire is nearly out now. The damage is noticeable even from here, but it doesn’t seem to stretch too far beyond the fifth floor flat it started in. Still, there’s a woman in a crisp white shirt walking through the crowd, advising everyone that the building will be off-limits for hours, possibly longer.

Athos grimaces. He’ll have to get a hotel room with no shoes and his clothes leaving tiny puddles at his feet.

All coherent thought abandons him, though, as the hot press of Porthos’ palm at the small of his back shocks him into stillness. 

“Wanna share a hotel room?” Porthos seems to reconsider the question the moment it hits the air and he drops his hand away with a contrite smile. Athos wonders if he felt the skin beneath his hand sizzle beneath that innocuous touch, thin t-shirt be damned. “I can sleep anywhere, so I can take the floor…”

There have been very few moments in Athos’ life the last few years where he’s felt the rush of promise. Very few as in _none_. But he feels it now, dizzyingly surging through his blood. 

If he takes Porthos up on his offer, he will, without question, beg this man to fuck him.

The knowledge jolts through him and Athos has to reach out blindly for something to steady him. Of course, his hand falls on Porthos’ bicep. He feels the muscle twitch reflexively and he mindlessly tightens his grip. When he drags his startled stare up to Porthos’ face, he finds conflicted eyes looking back at him. Concern. Lust. Restraint. It’s all there in the depths of that unwavering gaze. 

Porthos curls his hand over Athos’ and squeezes reassuringly.

“No pressure, Athos. I’ve got a friend I can stay over with. I just thought--”

Athos rocks forward. He has to lift just slightly onto his toes and he doesn’t know _what the fuck he’s even doing_ , so the kiss is off-center and mortifyingly inept. Porthos stiffens, understandably surprised.

God, he is such a goddamn _disaster_. Any second now the ground will open up and swallow him, if God has any mercy whatsoever.

But no, that’s not what happens. 

What happens is that Porthos sags and grasps Athos by the side of his face. He tilts his head, masterfully maneuvering Athos at the same time, and the kiss rockets from awkward to blisteringly hot in an instant. Porthos parts Athos’ lips with only the slightest effort and his tongue dips cautiously inside.

Shit. Shit. _Shit_.

Athos hears the pathetic little whine that races up his throat, but he can do nothing to stop it. Still, the grip on his neck and jaw only tightens, and Porthos deepens the kiss with a greedy rumble. It’s terrifying how easy Porthos is to lose himself in, how the crowd falls away and the panic recedes. Athos may not understand what suicidal impulse drove him to instigate this, in a public place at that, but regret is not one of the dozen emotions spiraling through him.

When the hardness of a nearby brick wall abruptly meets his back, Athos breaks the kiss with a quaking exhale. His fingers clutch at Porthos’ ribs and he presses their foreheads together as he tries to catch his breath. It helps that Porthos seems as shaken as he is. It _doesn’t_ help that he can feel Porthos’ cock, hard and heavy between them.

“Fuck me,” Porthos growls. “How many layers you got?”

Athos shakes his head in denial, but he can’t form any words to support it. With Porthos flush against him, pinning him to the wall, it’s a miracle he can do that much.

“Look,” Porthos murmurs, kissing the corner of Athos’ mouth like it’s simply an instinct he can no sooner suppress than breathing. “I get it. You’ve got baggage.”

“Understatement,” Athos mutters.

“Whatever. We’ve all got somethin’.”

“Porthos…”

“I’m not askin’ you to move in here, Athos. I’m askin’ if you want to go get a room and see where this leads.”

Athos gives him a _look_. “I think we both know where this will lead.”

Flashing a wolfish grin, Porthos noses up under his jaw and grazes his teeth against Athos’ throat. Athos swallows. 

“And that’s a bad thing?” Porthos’ hot breath scalds the skin of Athos’ throat and burns clean through him, incinerating his fear and leaving only nervous anticipation in its wake.

A few seconds tick by before Athos responds. But when he does, he’s surprised by how sure he sounds.

“Get someone to call us a taxi.”

Porthos straightens. The mischievous grin is gone, but the hopeful one in its place is far, _far_ worse.

Better? Athos isn’t sure which way is up and which way is down anymore. All he knows is that he feels more alive in this man’s company than he has in years.

“On it,” Porthos promises. He makes a move to step away, but then crowds back into Athos space to steal a kiss that leaves Athos shaking. “We’re gonna have to make a stop on the way there,” he whispers from a breath away. “On the plus side, I’ll get to watch from the car as you buy condoms and lube looking like you just stepped out of a racy music video.”

Athos groans quietly, the ghost of a laugh on his tongue. “Fucking _relentless_.”

The smile that slowly dawns on Porthos’ face is heart-stopping. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”


End file.
